


The Promised Mutiny

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Roleplay, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:57:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England makes the bet that he wouldn't be able to pull off a convincing pirate. Now it seemed it was time to be proven wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Promised Mutiny

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ August 20, 2010. 
> 
> The original prompt was for America to dress up as a pirate to show England he can do it just as good... Parts of this turned out unintentionally hilarious, but there you go. It was fun!

“You know,” America said, browsing through the pre-made Halloween costumes with a critical eye, searching out something like a Batman or Superman costume and failing to find any that weren’t made for toddlers, “it’s starting to look like I’ll have to just get a non-heroic costume for Halloween this year.”  
  
“Couldn’t you just make your own?” England asked behind him, narrowing his eyes at a costume of a slutty Red Riding Hood with either a look of utter distaste or utter arousal—America couldn’t be sure. America almost cracked a joke about riding England just to see, but decided against it, ultimately (who said he didn’t think before speaking?).  
  
“I could,” America said with a small roll of his hips as he twirled around on his heel to bend over and inspect the costumes hiding behind the lowest rung of clearance goods. He heard England sigh, watched his feet as the older man rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, hands in the pockets of his slacks. “But,” America said and delighted in the small snort England huffed, “that would mean doing more work. Why do that when I could buy a perfectly reasonable costume and have it already be done for me?”  
  
“You lazy twit,” England said, but not unaffectionate.   
  
America straightened up and grinned at him. “What about you, what are you going to be?”  
  
“What makes you think I have a costume at all?” England asked.   
  
“Well,” America said, chewing on the inside of his cheek, “You didn’t seem to like the idea of being a salt shaker and pepper shaker with me so I figured that was because you already had an idea for yourself.”  
  
England’s large eyebrow twitched. “I,” he said primly, “did not want to be a shaker with you because having matching costumes is perfectly asinine. And I would have wanted to be the pepper shaker—”  
  
“No way, dude, I was gonna be the pepper shaker!”  
  
“I rest my case,” England said, brushing past America to walk down the rest of the aisle, staring at more adult-sized costumes, more and more tilting towards the “slutty ___” category. He stared at the pictures of the women advertising the costumes on the label for a long moment, and America straightened up, brushing up to England’s side and bumping his hip against England’s.   
  
England stumbled a bit and gave him a glare that really lacked bite. America darted a quick glance over his shoulder before wrapping his arm briefly around England, leaning in, and kissing him on the cheek.  
  
“Okay, okay,” he said with a laugh and dropped his arm away before anyone saw them. “Do you have an idea, though?”  
  
“Magician,” England said.  
  
“Aaaah, come _on_ England, that’s what you are every year!” America whined. “It’s lame!”  
  
“It used to terrify you,” England said, and his face twitched before rippling into a smirk.  
  
America went pale and pursed his lips. “ _Anyone_ would have been scared of stuff like that if someone decided to dress up like a magician and scare me _during the Salem Witch Trials._ ”   
  
England rolled his eyes with a snort. “And your petrifying fear of everything certainly has nothing to do with it.”  
  
“I’m afraid of nothing!” America declared.  
  
“Hm,” England said, and then said, quietly, “ _Nothing_ is a very scary thing indeed.”  
  
He began walking again and America screwed his face up, trying to figure out what it was that England just said. He decided that England was quickly falling into a philosophical way of mind, so, to remedy this, he darted after England, planted his hands on England’s shoulders, and used it as leverage to jump high into the air, curve around England’s bulk, and land in front of him. He only stumbled slightly, so America considered it a great success.   
  
“So!” America declared, hands on his hips, watching England rub idly at one of his shoulders with a pursed face. “What do you think I should be?”  
  
“A donkey,” England said, “You’re a right ass.”   
  
America pouted at him. “What, you mean like a democrat? That’s boring, England.”   
  
England sighed. “Twit.”   
  
“Maybe I should dress up as Joey,” America mused, perking up slightly. As much as America got along pretty well with his boss, it was the vice president that he seemed to have the biggest camaraderie with in the White House. “Yeah,” America said, thinking this over in perfect seriousness, “Then I could say it’s in character whenever I say something unexpected.”  
  
“Or foolish,” England said with a roll of his eyes. “It would require you wearing a suit, anyway. Seems entirely too similar to what you do every day, anyway.”   
  
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” America mumbled.   
  
“Besides,” England said, “You wouldn’t be able to pull the personality off. You never were the greatest of actors, America.”  
  
“What? No fair, I totally am! Hollywood!”   
  
“Like I said,” England said with a smug expression, crossing his arms. “No acting skills whatsoever.”   
  
“You’re just jealous that my blockbusters are so fucking awesome,” America said, pouting some more.   
  
“Not in the least, I assure you.”  
  
“And anyway I am totally a good actor, what are you even talking about?” America protested, frowning thoughtfully.   
  
“Please,” England said with a roll of his eyes. “It’s one thing to be able to wear a costume, but another thing entirely to be able to play the part.”  
  
“Out of any of these costumes I could totally play the part along with it!” America said, puffing up his chest. “Just name the costume, and I’ll pull it off.”  
  
England held up a Slutty Clown outfit and America blanched in horror. “Um. Except that one.”  
  
“Can’t say I blame you,” England said with a nod, replacing the monstrosity back to the shelf.   
  
“I’m serious, though,” America said, chest still puffed up and looking so entirely confident that England almost wanted to just knee the fool in the stomach if only to see him deflate. America nodded, once, and crossed his arms. “I can play any role, any time. Name any role and I’ll pull it off so convincingly you’d forget that I’m not actually that thing.”  
  
England gave him a deadpan look.  
  
America grinned. “Go on, I dare you. Tell me what to be, and I’ll do it.”  
  
England scanned the lines of costume, expression neutral though his mind churning with finding a role that would be something that would actually be a challenge to America—he knew the idiot could act the politician, cowboy, space man. All the things that America liked. Asking him to be a slutty anything might result in hilarious (and arousing) results, but he had no doubt that America had the capacity to sexualize himself.   
  
He turned back towards America. “A pirate.” He saw America open his mouth and England quickly said, “And not a Captain Jack Sparrow, thank you. Just. A pirate.”  
  
America thought this over, and then grinned. “Like you were?”  
  
England pressed his lips together in a thin line, unsure if he’d made the right decision. But he nodded, regardless.  
  
America’s grin widened. “You got it.”   
  
England stood there, arms crossed, staring at America expectantly.  
  
America’s grin faltered slightly. “I can’t do it right _now_ , England. It’s gotta be totally unexpected. You don’t stand around _waiting_ for the mutiny, right?”   
  
“Do you even know what you’re talking about?” England drawled.  
  
“I had pirates, too, ya know,” America protested.   
  
“Of course,” England said, and started walking. “Let’s leave this store—there’s no costume of worth here. If you tell me what you want, I can make you a costume.”   
  
“Kay,” America said, perking up and following after England. A hand breezed over the small of his back briefly and America said, perfectly innocent and grinning, even though the words weighed down with a promise, “You better prepare yourself, England. You never know when I might be boarding your ship.”  
  
“That better not be part of your act,” England said primly as they left the store. He couldn’t help but shiver, slightly, however.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Halloween came and went, but still no sign of America’s promised piracy. The party held between nations, at least some of them, was a great success. It always was, because in the end it didn’t take the nations much to have a good time—booze, basically. And there was a fair quantity of alcohol at the party, as always. England was, as expected, a magician again, just as he had been for the past few hundred decades. America ended up going as a cowboy, after digging around in his storage and finding an old outfit he wore back before the taming of the Wild West, but spent most of the party hiding in the closet because the ghost of Canadians past kept scaring the fearless cowboy to near tears.   
  
England, admittedly, had half-expected America to show up as a pirate to the party, or even the day following when they’d collapsed together in England’s bed, making quick work to rip off their aged clothing and get down to more important (and fun) business. But waking up in the morning, England was greeted only with the sight of a sated, obliviously happy America snuggling into his chest and clinging to him, pressed so close to his chest that his cheek bunched up in a comical way. England had spent the morning stroking his fingers through America’s hair before the younger nation had woken up, shared a quick, morning-breath ridden kiss, and had to dart away in order to get back to work.   
  
So the days passed and England did his work and did some things unrelated to work (namely, going to the bar with France).   
  
It was a few weeks after Halloween when the promise finally came to fruition. England came home utterly exhausted. He slumped into his house with a small sigh, toeing off his shoes and dropping his briefcase near the table where he left his car keys. Loosening his tie, England wandered absently through his house towards the kitchen, to fix himself a cup of tea. The entire day had been long, tedious, and obnoxious. He worried he was getting a migraine the size of Wales or perhaps coming down with a cold—it wouldn’t be the first time, considering the state of the world. His fabulous plans for the evening were to take the tea to his bed, get comfortable, and read a book until he passed out. He had the day off tomorrow, at least, so perhaps he would indulge himself and sleep in an extra hour before getting to the work waiting for him in his briefcase. Regardless, it was shaping up to be a completely uninspiring and unexciting weekend, and that suited England just fine. He was dead tired, and his back ached.   
  
Sighing, he made his way to his bedroom and set his tea down on the bedside table. He pressed a hand to his face, sighed once again, and slumped his way to his closet. Pulling off his tie completely now and undoing a few of the buttons, England reached out his hand and opened the closet door.  
  
And then nearly had a heart attack when America was there waiting for him.   
  
“Jesus—!”  
  
America sat in a chair he must have dragged into the closet, legs crossed so that America’s right ankle balanced on top of his knee. He was slumped slightly, chin resting on a turned hand, elbow on the chair’s arm. He stared at England with practiced ease, completely indifferent and sultry as he did so, blue eyes bright and unhidden (where had Texas gone?), if not slightly hooded. He was definitely wearing England’s old pirate outfit, at least one of them, and the clothes seemed just a tad too tight, but just enough to accent the boy’s figure. Trousers tucked into boots, sash, billowing shirt half-opened over his chest beneath the long green coat, the one that England had always been particularly fond of, with the golden embroidery and dark red trim, and opened sleeves. He had the hat, the gloves, even the holster holding the old gun, long since rusted over and unusable, tucked away at his hip.   
  
But the gloved hand he wasn’t resting his chin on, resting idly on the chair’s arm, slipped to the gun now and held it aloft, straight at England’s chest. England wasn’t worried about the gun, as he knew it was most likely empty and would have been useless even with bullets, but the motion definitely sent a shock down England’s spine. He stiffened up, eyes widened in shock. He wasn’t worried because he was captivated by the look America was giving him, quietly confident, but also seemingly downright bored—but it was still a surprising situation to suddenly find himself in. His heart was still racing from having America _in his fucking closet._   
  
“And who,” America said, calmly, “gave you permission to open to the captain’s quarters?”   
  
England quirked an eyebrow at him, but smiled slightly. Really, America did look too attractive like that, and with that quietly confident look of his. Of course, England couldn’t help but wonder just _when_ America had gotten around to not only raiding his storage (oh god, what had the boy found in there?) but also setting up in his closet to wait for him (why the closet?). He bit back the criticism and lecture (and perhaps the small chuckle), because he was much more interested in seeing if America could carry on the role of pirate captain.   
  
“I’m here for the mutiny,” England decided, and watched with a small smile as America made a great show of uncrossing his legs and standing up, pressing the barrel of the gun to England’s chest, brushing aside the fabric of his dress shirt to press up against his skin.   
  
“Mutiny, hm?” America asked, voice coming out in a soft, breathless purr. “That won’t do at all, sailor.”   
  
“Is that so?” England murmured, taking a step back as America pushed against him. England let America push him back until the older nation felt the back of his knees connect with his bed. He sat down, arms behind him to steady himself and keep him upright, staring up at America.  
  
America pressed forward, planting one foot on the bed, leaning over England and staring at him. “There are punishments for disloyal crewmates. You understand.”   
  
“Hmm,” England hummed, but did not protest when the gun on his chest slid up, slowly, ever so slowly, and pressed against the underside of his jaw. He swallowed, just for show, letting his eyes flicker up to meet the blue eyes—and no matter how steeled the boy’s poker face may be, England could see the mirth and adoration in those blue eyes. “What kind of punishments were you thinking of,” England asked, and then added, with just the touch of rebellion, “ _Captain_?”  
  
“If you want me to stop,” America said in utter seriousness, and the way his expression changed let England know that the boy had dropped character, at least for a moment. “Say so.”  
  
England understood the hesitation, but England had no intention of stopping—he was too interested in seeing if America could make England forget who he actually was, and convince him of the role—as their little competition ordained. England tipped his chin back, staring defiantly up at the younger nation turned pirate. “Such sympathy doesn’t suit you if I do say so myself, _Captain._ Shouldn’t you be more concerned over my plans to kill you?”   
  
America’s expression flickered, and he just managed to stifle a relieved smile, something that certainly didn’t suit the character at all. Like England suspected, America was not the best of actors. The entire performance was shaping up to be something that England expected, that is, until, America seemed to remember himself, or sensed what England was thinking, and he steeled his face further, so much so that the blue eyes sobered up as well. England quirked another brow, but America was shoving him back down onto the bed, moving to press a booted foot over his stomach, dangerously close to his crotch but far enough that England ached with longing for a touch. With the small twirl of the gun, an action that seemed better suited for a quick draw in America’s deserts, America planted the gun back down to his side in the holster and leaned forward, pressing both hands to the mattress on either side of England, caging him in. The boot on his stomach pressed harder.   
  
“You will submit to me or else I’ll leave you for the crew to have its way with you,” America growled low in England’s ear.   
  
England shivered and couldn’t help tipping his hips back, trying to relieve the pressure of America’s foot.   
  
America pulled back, adjusting the hat so it tipped low over one of his eyes. His golden hair fell to frame his face, a face that hardly looked like America’s anymore. Without his glasses, and with that steeled look in his eyes, he seemed every part the coldhearted captain he was meant to play. England stared at his face, traced the lines of his jaw, the dip of his neck as America swallowed. Wearing the clothes of a bygone era, slightly too tight but stretched thin over his muscles and skin, left England a little more than hot and bothered. He shifted slightly, but America pushed him down harder, leaning forward, resting his elbow on his knee and regarding England with cold, calculating indifference.   
  
England shifted, perhaps to try to knock America away, but the new captain shifted, moving his foot mercilessly off his stomach and planting on the bed. He pushed himself up, standing on the mattress and slammed his other foot down onto England’s wrist when he made a grab for America’s ankle. America must have been shifting his weight, at least somewhat, because the sudden movement didn’t hurt England too much, though he was successfully pinned to the bed. America towered over him now, the coat falling comfortably behind him and arms crossing over the open v-line of his shirt. He regarded England coolly, frowning, no warmth in his eyes.   
  
“Submit,” America said, softly, his voice a deadly whisper. England couldn’t help but shiver. But figuring that if America was going to play the part, he should as well. He glared up at America, green eyes narrowed.  
  
“Never,” he said softly.   
  
America quirked his eyebrow, arms still crossed. “Is that _so_?”  
  
England curled his lip in disgust, turning his chin up defiantly. “I’d like to see you try and break me, _pirate._ ”   
  
“And what,” America drawled out, quietly, foot shifting of his wrist and trailing up his arm, pressing up against the underside of England’s chin, tipping it back. He tilted his own head in turn, regarding England at a side-long glance and continued, “do you expect you’ll accomplish by resisting me?”  
  
England glared at him.  
  
America grinned, mirthlessly, ruthlessly. “Perhaps,” he said softly, foot trailing down over his chest and pressing, just above his heart, a steady presence, “You want to be broken by me, in one meaning more than the other.”  
  
“Fuck you,” England gasped out.  
  
“I thought so,” America said lowly, face rippling with triumph. His foot drifted downwards, pressing, ever so softly, against England’s crotch, causing the older nation to gasp, arching slightly. America smirked in victory. “Like I said. Would you _like_ me to break you, traitor?”   
  
Shaking, England struggled against America’s hold, but ended up only arching into the boot, rubbing against him with a hiss of air from his lungs. America’s smirk stayed in place and he dropped down off the bed, gripping England by his ankles and dragging him across the bed and to him. America stared at him, long and unrelenting, betraying nothing in his cold blue eyes. Then he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against England’s chest. England seized up, eyes narrowing—all part of the act.  
  
“Perhaps this could be a means to teach you some proper loyalty,” America growled, hands going to England’s belt and ripping his trousers down, tossing them aside.   
  
England sat up, intending to put up some nominal struggle against America’s attempts, but America just shoved him back down, unbuttoning England’s shirt the rest of the way and pushing it off his shoulders, pulling off the sleeves slightly so he could tie them expertly behind England’s back, pinning his arms behind him and leaving him defenseless. The knots, had England been very focused on getting away, could have been wiggled out of, but as it stood he only gave a bit of a struggle before he was being shoved down onto his back again, America standing again over him, feet on either side of England’s hips, staring down at him.  
  
“Do you want me, traitor?” America whispered, voice aloof and head tilted to the side as if patronizing a spoilt child.  
  
England glared at him, arched his back defiantly, chest heaving. “Go to hell.”  
  
“Someday,” America drawled, slowly, his face rippling into a satisfied smirk. “I’ll certainly see you there.”   
  
He tipped his hat slightly, shadowing his face as he stared down at England.  
  
“So,” America murmured, shifting slightly so that one foot was underneath England’s back, forcing him to a sitting position, “what am I to do with you?”  
  
“You tell me,” England said with a soft snort, “ _Captain._ ”   
  
“I think,” America said quietly, “I know exactly what I’ll do to you.”  
  
And he straightened his back slightly, standing up straighter. With a great show, he took his gloved hand and pressed it into the pocket of the thick jacket, brushing it back as his other hand went to undo the ties of the sash keeping his trousers up. Out slipped the bottle of lube England certainly hadn’t had back in _his_ pirating days, but he certainly wasn’t complaining—even if the cocky little bugger had planned this all along. England couldn’t deny that the combination of the younger nation in pirating clothes and the earlier pressure of the foot across his front side was definitely a deadly one.  
  
He tipped his head back defiantly, but this only seemed to give America more pleasure. Sash undone, he sank down onto his knees, still straddling England and gripping England’s chin with the gloved fingers. He snorted, turning his nose up slightly as he regarded England. England glared back. With a smirk, America leaned in, biting at England’s lower lip until England opened his mouth with a gasp and America proceeded to dominate England’s mouth with his own. England bit back a moan, but just barely, and America swallowed the quiet hitch of his breath. England could feel the curve of a smirk against his mouth as America continued to kiss him, battling his tongue with his own.   
  
England struggled against the shirt on his arms tying them uselessly behind his back, ignoring the overpowering urge to hold onto America. America, sensing his struggling, slipped a knee between England’s legs and pressed upwards, rubbing experimentally until England did cry out against America’s mouth and forgot all about struggling. America bit at his mouth again and drew away with a sharp breath and a smirk that had never slipped off his lips the entire time.   
  
“Bastard,” England hissed.  
  
America pressed a thumb against England’s mouth and it tasted of the black leather. Still smirking, the gloved hand traveled down, over his chin, down the length of his neck, over the slopes of his chest before sliding over his stomach and gripping his cock between his fingers. England choked on air, knowing he had lost completely.   
  
“I’ll ask you again,” America purred in his ear before biting the lobe, breath hot and raspy in his ear, “What am I to do with you?”  
  
England tipped his head back as the lips pressed over his ear, down along the line of his jaw, and then slowly moving down the column of his neck. England’s eyes fluttered closed.  
  
“Shall I fuck you?” America whispered against his hot skin, so close and so _cold_ that it sent goose bumps prickling along England’s skin.   
  
England didn’t answer, but he felt his head give the smallest of nods.  
  
“Hmmm,” America hummed, kissing at his collarbone before biting down on the skin. England cried out. America licked at the spot in something that would have been an apology if the pirate didn’t seem completely aloof. He straightened again, hat brim low enough to cover one eye still. “I wonder if you’d like that too much.”  
  
The hand on England’s cock moved agonizingly slow and England hissed out a small gasp before arching into the touch. America raised one brow and took his hand away. England refused to whimper, but he couldn’t stop the small moan of disappointment at the lack of friction and contact.  
  
America’s eyes flickered. “Blow me first.”  
  
England shifted, letting America’s hand in his hair wrap through wispy locks before forcing his head downward. But at the last moment, America jerked England’s head back by the hair, forcing him to look upward at America’s primly neutral expression.  
  
“I warn you, traitor,” America whispered, “Use your teeth and you’re dead. And it’s rude not to swallow.”  
  
England’s expression flickered but before he could sneer a reply, America’s free hand had forced three fingers into England’s mouth, pried the mouth open, and forced England’s head down onto his cock. England set to work on sucking America off, tongue pressing and swirling. He choked slightly but went about swallowing as much of America as he could, even as the pirate jerked his hips slightly, fucking England’s mouth. England’s hands weren’t free for him to use, but if he had them he’d pump along in time with his mouth. As such, America would have to make do with only his mouth for company.   
  
The hand in his hair, harsh before, began to stroke against the back of his skull in encouragement, a parody of affection, a fallacy for a man such as this pirate. England sucked and swallowed as much as he could, mindful not to scrape the sensitive skin with his teeth. He used his tongue, pressing and stroking along the underside of the cock, sucking until his cheeks went hollow, bobbing his head as America ordained, attempting to send the pirate into incoherent moans, but only being awarded with soft, hitched breaths and the stroke of a hand in his hair. He didn’t give up, though, loosening his throat and taking more and more of the cock into his mouth, tongue never stopping. He pulled back, dragging his tongue from base to tip, swirling along the head in gentle, soft touches meant to drive the pirate wild.   
  
He pulled away for air, sucking in greedily before pressing down back to the cock, pillowing kisses and darts of his tongue, counting the trails of saliva he left behind. He felt the way the cock steadily hardened beneath his ministrations, making it his personal mission to make the pirate cry out for more and thrilling in the way the pirate was staying coldly silent, as if this didn’t please him at all. He sucked and licked, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the thick cock and moving downwards, kissing a bit at his pelvis and at the balls beneath the cock. The pirate made a small grunt and forced England’s head back up, prying his mouth again to force it over his cock. England obeyed, swallowing the cock and using his tongue to stroke and work closer and closer to the pirate’s incoherency.   
  
America cried out softly, and when England looked up at him, eyes wide in order to take in America’s expression from the awkward angle of having his head in America’s crotch, he could see that America’s character had broken at least somewhat, his face rippling with pleasure. Then he caught sight of England’s eyes and his expression closed off again. The gentle hand on his back pushed England back down onto his cock and he thrust up harshly against him, causing England to choke again.   
  
“Fuck,” the pirate growled, fisting his fingers into England’s hair and forcing the rhythm, pumping England’s head up and down along his cock. England grunted, but secretly delighted in being able to make America lose control, at least somewhat, to break his character if only a little.  
  
Soon, he felt America stiffening up and a moment later England’s mouth filled with cum. He swallowed all he could, breathing harshly through his nose as he sucked America dry. America cried out softly. He thrust up weakly into England’s mouth. His mouth flooded, filled with warmth. England did his best to swallow it all, and pulled back to breathe in a sharp breath. Cum spilled across his lips and he lapped it up, tongue pressing over his lips and over the weeping cockhead, his eyes flickering up to stare at America with such unrestrained longing that it was a wonder that the rattling breath America drew in didn’t shatter his ribcage.   
  
“I—I really hope you didn’t do that with everyone back in the day,” America gasped out, sweat dotting his forehead as England pulled back. America reached out a gloved hand, passing his thumb over England’s lips, collecting some of the cum England hadn’t managed to catch. England licked at the digit and America sucked in a harsh breath.   
  
England just flashed him a smug smile.   
  
America remembered, belatedly, to remain in character and his face closed off again. He gripped England’s chin harshly, using his other hand to adjust the pirate hat and snorted softly.  
  
“Perhaps I shouldn’t kill you for your betrayal,” America drawled. “Perhaps I should keep you in my quarters out of charity.”  
  
“Hmm,” England hummed, quirking one eyebrow.  
  
America pulled his hands away, undoing the three buttons he’d buttoned up for his shirt in the first place, pulling back. He stood, kicking off his boots back towards the chair he’d left in the closet. He smirked, hot and sultry, before slipping out of his pants and tossing them aside to join the discarded boots. He left the shirt and coat on and it billowed behind him. As hot as the image was, if the boy got his coat dirty England was going to kill him when this was over.  
  
But he was achingly hard now and he moaned up at the captain, moaned out his surrender.   
  
“Seems my plan to fuck you now is a bit delayed,” America intoned, his voice a soft, drawn-out exhalation, punctuated with a bored little sigh as if this entire situation wasn’t devastatingly arousing for him, either of them. It was true, though; he was soft from England’s attentions. It would take a while for his body to recharge for another round.  
  
“What a horrible situation for you, Captain,” England whispered, his lips breezing over the thumb pressed against his lips. America turned his attention towards England’s eyes, stooping so that they were meeting leveled. England’s eyes flickered, lids sinking to half-mast before fluttering a moment. He shut his eyes as America leaned in and kissed him, shoved his tongue into his mouth and tasted himself still on his tongue.   
  
“We’ll have to make do,” America said, pulling away and lifting his hand, biting at his glove and pulling it off. He spit it away and pulled the other glove off in the same manner, before fetching the lube from where he’d left it on the bedside table.   
  
He shifted, pressing his foot against England’s chest and pushing him down onto his back. Rock hard now, England could only watch as America coated his hand in lube and pumped it slowly over England’s cock.  
  
“Captain?” England whispered.  
  
“You’ll serve well to shut your mouth,” America growled, moving slowly up England’s body.   
  
“Yes, Captain,” England whispered and said no more. He bit his lip to fight back the small moan that threatened to push out of his throat. His throat burned, his entire body shivered, shuddered, shook for only his captain.  
  
The pirate’s face swam into his blurred view, blocking the light from the ceiling as he stared down at England. He was smirking, in triumph, knowing that he had won. He stared down at him and the hat finally fell of his head, flopping uselessly to the ground. America didn’t seem to notice its absence. “Be silent as you serve me, traitor.”  
  
England bit back a moan as America’s thumb rubbed at the head of England’s cock, a dusty brown now from blood flow. The hand was treacherously slow, leaving a wake of burning wherever it passed over England’s needy skin, but England didn’t dare cry out, didn’t dare beg for more. The pirate moved slowly, sinfully slow. The hand pressed over his cock, cupped his balls, slid over the shuddering skin of his body, dangerously close only to drift away, touch deceptively light.   
  
“I reward those who are loyal to me,” the pirate murmured, leaning down to kiss at England’s jaw. England swallowed and America pressed in, kissing at his adam’s apple with practiced ease, listening to the shuddering sputters of England’s pulse. “Ask me how I reward my loyal crew.”  
  
“How?” England whispered, voice cracking from pleasure, from the heat.   
  
America’s smirk widened. “I’m so glad you asked. You see, I reward loyalty by giving them what it is they want. Isn’t that kind of me?”  
  
A hand stroked his hair, brushed over his ear, and dragged across his jaw. England could only nod.   
  
“It is,” America agreed. He tipped England’s head back and kissed at the corner of his mouth. “Let it never be said that I don’t take care of my men.”  
  
“Ah…” England gasped softly as a hand returned to his cock, stroking the lube over him, driving up and down slowly.   
  
“But the question I have to wonder now,” America murmured, breath hot against his lips. England tried to press forward and kiss him but the pirate tipped his head away, smiling. “Are you loyal to me?”   
  
The hand on his cock slowed and England bit his lip.   
  
“Are you?” the captain whispered, biting at his lower lip. England’s mouth parted and he dragged in a sharp breath. When he opened his eyes, the pirate was staring at him coldly. “Are you loyal to me?”  
  
England panted, thrust his hips up into America’s stationary hand. The pirate didn’t move, staring at him coldly.   
  
“I am,” England gasped. “I am loyal to you.”  
  
The pirate’s expression flickered and he smiled, almost warm. “Swear it.”  
  
“I swear, you are my captain. I am loyal to you.”   
  
The hand resumed moving on his cock, pumping him. “This pleases me,” America said softly, “So now I’ll please you.”   
  
“Please,” England whispered and America pressed in to kiss him.  
  
“How’s this for mutiny?” America whispered back, positioning himself over England and slowly, so, so slowly, lowering himself down onto the cock. They both stilled at the first breach of muscles. England watched him stiffen up, wished he had his hands free to smooth over his skin in encouragement—but that would be neither appropriate or appreciated by the pirate.  
  
“You give a convincing argument, my captain,” England gasped as America seated himself fully on England’s cock.  
  
“I’m rather gracious,” America agreed. He moved his hands to grasp the back of England’s neck, fingers kneading at the muscles and skin and stroking through his hair. “I could have left you all alone with that hard-on, but I’m doing this because, in the end, I’m a benevolent captain.”  
  
“H-… hmmf,” England gasped as he thrust up into America. America shoved his hands against England’s hips, keeping him from moving.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be thanking your captain for his kindness?” America hissed, hand in England’s hair, forcing his head back and raising one eyebrow.  
  
“Thank you, my captain,” England moaned, trying to thrust up again but America’s superior strength tethering him down.   
  
America smirked. “That’s more like it.”   
  
And with that, the pirate began to move, riding England’s cock. America bobbed himself up and down along England’s cock, in complete control of the pleasure that England felt. England tipped his head back, gasped quietly as America continued his ministrations. It was a bit odd, as England himself, back in his piracy days, would never have allowed himself to ride anyone this way, but it somehow seemed appropriate given the circumstances, and given the way that America had England at his complete mercy. Perhaps he should have invested in such things back then as well. But of course, thinking of the past while America was doing such a fabulous job in his role was incredibly rude and he bit back a quiet moan as America rolled his hips down, riding England.   
  
America rolled his hips, swiveling slightly as he rode England. England gasped and moaned and even managed a few more “thank you”s at America’s prompting, thrusting up into his captain with renewed frenzy as he grew closer and closer to climax. Once he reached it, he felt himself stiffening up and felt the warmth inside America as his cum filled him. Panting, he let America ride him until England was milked dry, flopped down on his back and staring up at the ceiling with a dazed, but appreciative look in his eyes.   
  
He felt America roll off him and a hand stroke along his body, before slipping behind him and untying the shirt around his arms. England turned his attention towards America as America propped his head up in his hand and slid his leg over England’s hips, pressing up against him.  
  
America was grinning now, façade completely dropped. “How’d I do?”  
  
“Not bad,” England admitted after a pause. “Not perfect, but certainly better than I’d expected.”   
  
America’s grin widened. “Told you I was a good actor.”  
  
“Perhaps with a bit more practice you’ll even serve to convince me completely,” England drawled, tangling his hand in America’s hair. “Where did you find my clothes?”  
  
“Back of your attic.”  
  
“Take that coat off before you get it dirty,” England muttered and America sat up, straddling England still, and smiling that goofy, lopsided smile of his as he slipped out of the coat and tossed it effortlessly over the armchair in the closet. He shrugged out of the shirt as well and let it fall to the floor. Both naked now, America lowered himself down into England’s arms and kissed at his neck.  
  
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”  
  
“Not at all,” England said, tossing his own shirt off the bed and wrapping his arms around the expanse of America’s back.   
  
“But you’re shaking,” America pointed out.  
  
“Because it’s cold,” England lied, and wrapped his arms around America. “Commere, you.”   
  
America did as he was asked, snuggling up closer to England, his demeanor completely changed from a few minutes prior. His face was warm, bright, and his blue eyes were just as admiring and gentle as they always were, even at America’s worst. England stroked his hair from his face, smiling fondly up at the boy.   
  
“You did well,” England admitted.   
  
“That’s good,” America said, kissing at the underside of his chin absently.   
  
“Hmm,” England hummed, closing his eyes and focusing on America’s attentions, a silent apology just in case he had hurt England, or an apology for being rough—really, the boy was sometimes achingly gentle in his paranoia not to overuse his substantial strength.   
  
“I,” America declared, “am one sexy pirate.”  
  
England snorted, but didn’t deny it. He stroked the back of America’s head. “You were still horribly influenced by Hollywood.”  
  
“What are you talking about, most of my inspiration came from how you act whenever you top me,” America said with a bark of laughter, not even cringing when England whacked him in the back of the head. He kept laughing, breathless puffs as he kissed at England’s chest.   
  
“Twit,” England said, affectionately so.   
  
“I’m probably a cooler pirate than you ever were,” America said, grinning.   
  
England quirked his eyebrows. “Would you like to bet?”  
  
America’s grin almost turned coy. “Sure you won’t lose again, old man?”   
  
“Perhaps I should teach you a thing or two about piracy, my dear lad.”  
  
America grinned wide, scooped up the pirate’s hat from the floor, and plopped it on England’s head. England shifted and pushed America back down onto his back, kneeling over him. England sat up on his knees, shifted to straddle America, and lifted his hands to adjust the pirate’s hat, arching his back slightly.  
  
America’s breath caught. “Teach me the motion of the ocean, baby.”  
  
“You are not allowed to speak if all you’ll say is horrible phrases like that,” England said with a groan and a shake of his head. He leaned down, brushed his lips over America’s, “But prepare to be educated, boy.”


End file.
